


Hearts Wear Thin

by excelgesis



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27953555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excelgesis/pseuds/excelgesis
Summary: Kun doesn’t understand why Ten is like this—climbing into his bed at midnight just because, wrapping an arm around Kun’s waist and scooting close enough that Kun can feel his breath fan across his mouth.He doesn’t understand why goosebumps raise along his arms every time, why his insides turn inside-out, why he wants him closer and farther away all at once.It’s the first time in his life he’s ever known how something can be both too much and not enough.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Qian Kun
Comments: 65
Kudos: 476





	Hearts Wear Thin

Kun doesn’t know why it’s like this.

He doesn’t understand why _Ten is like this—_ climbing into his bed at midnight _just because,_ wrapping an arm around Kun’s waist and scooting close enough that Kun can feel his breath fan across his mouth. He doesn’t understand why goosebumps raise along his arms every time, why his insides turn inside-out, why he wants him closer and farther away all at once. It’s the first time in his life he’s ever known how something can be both too much and not enough.

He doesn’t sleep whenever Ten comes to his room.

He’d never tell him that, though.

△

It’s different when Ten is awake.

It’s different because he’s loud and he’s annoying and he knows it. It’s different because at midnight, when the lights are off and the dorm is quiet enough to hear the _whoosh_ of traffic outside the window, Ten is soft. He’s delicate curves and gentle breaths in the space between their bodies. He’s something Kun wishes to touch, sometimes, when he allows himself to think about it. He’s not sure how or where—just his fingertips ghosting along his skin, maybe. A hand in his hair. And Kun wonders if that’s wrong, or weird, or acceptable. He really doesn’t know.

But when they’re all awake and the dorm is loud enough to give him a headache, Ten is something else. Someone else. He’s a thorn in Kun’s side most days, poking and prodding and digging into all the places that make him half-angry. Only half, because Kun could never be mad at him. He could never be mad at any of them, really, because he looks at them and fondness pools in his chest.

That fondness is there now, even as he watches Sicheng burn a fried egg and set off the smoke alarm. Yangyang screams and grabs a dishtowel, waving it in the air frantically in an effort to clear it. Dejun rolls his eyes and opens a window. Yukhei laughs so hard he falls to the ground in the living room, and Bella runs over to lick his face.

It’s a typical morning, really.

“You didn’t use enough oil.” Kun sighs and moves to Sicheng’s side. He dumps the egg in the trash and turns the burner back on. “Didn’t I already show you how to do this once?”

Sicheng grins. “More than once, I think. And for the record, I thought that egg was perfectly edible.”

“Well, you guys ate dog food once, so that’s not saying much,” Kun huffs.

“Dog food is edible!” Yangyang shouts.

“It wasn’t that bad!” Kunhang adds.

Kun can only grimace.

Ten comes out of his room eventually, hair mussed and glasses slipping down his nose. He’s in nothing but boxers and an oversized tee shirt. Kun looks away. “Do I smell smoke?” Ten wrinkles his nose and peers into the kitchen. “Did Sicheng fucking burn something again?”

Sicheng folds his arms across his chest. “I didn’t _burn_ anything. It was just very well done.”

“It was an egg, not a goddamn steak,” Kun retorts. “It’s not supposed to be _well done.”_

Ten laughs and elbows Sicheng in the ribs. “Did you hear that? ‘It’s an egg, not a goddamn steak.’” He shoots Kun a grin from across the room. “Okay, _Kun-ma.”_

Kun bristles and lifts the spatula into the air. “Don’t call me that, _Yongqin.”_

“Oh, what’re you gonna do, hit me?” Ten dances toward him, spreads his arms wide, sticks out his tongue. “I fucking dare you.”

“Do _not_ test me.”

_“’Do not test me,’”_ Yangyang mocks. He runs into the kitchen and puts his hands on his hips. “Hey, Ten, Ten, guess who I am.” He twists his face into a scowl. _“Do not test me, Yongqin, I am your mother.”_

“I am not your mother!” Kun pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t even know how your _actual_ mothers put up with you.”

“Ohhhh, rude!” Kunhang yells.

If he doesn’t have a headache by the time it hits eleven AM, it’s not a normal morning. Kun glances at the clock. 9:14. Right on track, then.

It’s the weekend and a rare day off, but he feels compelled to spend it in the studio nonetheless. He has a song he’s working on, though most of it is still a vague, fuzzy jumble at the back of his brain, and if he doesn’t make at least _some_ headway, he’ll probably go insane.

Time gets away from him like this, with his fingers splayed across the keyboard, and it feels like only minutes have passed when the door creaks open. He whips around in his chair, startled.

Ten holds up both hands, palms facing outward. “Relax, it’s just me.”

Kun lets out a breath. “Can I help you with something?”

“Wow.” He puts on an expression of mock hurt. “So mean to me, and I only just got here.”

And Kun doesn’t _want_ to be mean; he doesn’t _want this—_

“I just came to ask if you want dinner.” Ten shrugs and folds his arms. “Yukhei ordered takeout, and you’ve been in here for like seven hours.”

He curses under his breath. “It’s been that long already?”

Ten’s face goes soft with that genuine concern he gets sometimes—the concern that turns Kun’s stomach to water. “Is everything okay?”

“Sure.” Kun fiddles with the pen in his hands. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Ten shrugs. “You’ve just been in here a while, you know. Thought maybe you didn’t want to hang out with us or something.”

They say things like that a lot— _Kun-ge doesn’t want to spend time with us—_ and he feels a little bit of an ache behind his ribs. “I do want to hang out with you,” he says softly. Ten raises an eyebrow. “All of you,” he tacks on quickly, heat rising to his face. “I want to spend time with all of you. I just… lose track of the time when I’m in here. You know that.”

“Yeah. I know that.”

So Kun packs up his things and follows him back to the dorm. It’s loud, of course, with Dejun shouting at the TV and Yangyang begging Sicheng to _please give him an extra piece of chicken because doesn’t he deserve it?_ Kun really isn’t hungry though, and he frowns when Ten gestures to a full plate on the coffee table. “Saved that for you.”

He shifts on his feet. “I’m not that hungry, to be honest.”

Ten’s eyes narrow. “So?”

“So I don’t think I’m gonna—”

“You’re going to eat.” He reaches for the bag on Kun’s shoulder and gently pulls it to the floor. “You probably haven’t eaten since this morning.”

He hasn’t, of course. Ten always knows. So he sits, and he eats, and he sees Ten watching him from the corner of his eye.

They put on a movie later—a superhero thing that he’s not all that interested in—so he tosses his plate in the sink and heads for his room. He’s not sure what he plans on doing—he hates scrolling through social media and it’s hard for him to work on projects outside of the studio. He settles on a book he’s halfway through and hopes that Yangyang won’t walk in anytime soon. They caught him reading once— _once—_ and called him “Old Librarian Kun” for three weeks.

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. Thirty. It’s nice like this, quiet and still, and he settles deeper into the blankets. Forty minutes. An hour.

There’s a knock at the door after a while, and he looks up to see Ten peek around the doorframe. One corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. “Hey, Old Librarian Kun.”

Kun frowns. “Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t worry, I think it’s cute.” He lets the door fall shut behind him.

Kun feels heat rise to his face, which is _fucking ridiculous—_ “Cute isn’t really what I’m going for.”

“What else could you possibly be going for?”

“Studious? Knowledgeable? Well-read?”

Ten snorts and climbs into bed next to him. “Boring.”

And here he goes again, settling into Kun’s bed like it’s nothing, pressing their bodies close and resting his head against Kun’s shoulder. Kun thinks his heartbeat picks up a little but he’d _die_ before admitting it. “Do you… Do you need something?”

Ten hums. “Can’t I just spend time with you?”

“I mean…” He clears his throat and places a bookmark between the pages. “I don’t understand why you… want to.”

Ten makes a noise in the back of his throat and lifts his head up to stare at him. “Because I like you?”

And _okay,_ that launches his heart into his mouth. He knows it’s not _like that,_ and of course he doesn’t want it to be because that would be _strange—_

“You can keep reading,” Ten says softly, once the silence between them has stretched long enough to morph into awkwardness. “I just like being here.” He leans his head against Kun’s shoulder again.

_And I like you being here,_ he wants to say. It almost slips from his tongue. Almost. He picks the book up from his lap, opens it, tries to focus. It’s difficult, with Ten’s warm body pressed against his and the way Kun’s fingers itch to trail along his skin for _some reason—_

Another hour passes. He hears the faint sound of a video game coming from the living room, and the not-so-faint sound of Yukhei cursing at the screen. He thinks he’s read the same page three or four times. He swallows. “Hey, Ten?”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, I just…” He clears his throat. “Thought maybe you fell asleep.”

“Mmm, I’m awake.” Ten’s hands have slipped under the blanket, and Kun tenses at the feeling of his fingers toying with the hem of Kun’s shirt. “A little tired, though.”

_God,_ his stomach is turning in on itself. “You can go to bed.”

He feels Ten shake his head. “Wanna stay here. It’s comfy with you.”

And he doesn’t understand, it doesn’t make sense, he doesn’t know why Ten is like this. He wonders how Ten can get under his skin so easily, push every single one of his buttons, bring out the side of him that’s sharp and harsh and nagging while still turning his bones to mush. There are days where he’s not sure if they’re even _friends_ , but then Ten crawls into his bed and goes pliant against the sheets and Kun stops to think if he’s like this with anyone else.

He swallows back that unnamed, unchecked emotion in his throat and gets out of bed to turn off the light. He’ll make the excuse that he’s tired, too, even though having Ten next to him robs the sleep from his brain. He slips under the blanket and Ten immediately moves closer. It’s quiet for a long time. Ten doesn’t touch him, only stares at him with sleepy eyes and his hair fanned out across the pillow. “Can I ask you something?” He finally whispers. It sounds unnaturally loud in the room’s pressing silence.

Kun pauses. “Sure.”

“I know you don’t sleep when I stay in here.” His gaze doesn’t leave Kun’s face. “So why don’t you ever kick me out?”

Kun thinks he feels the Earth slide out from underneath him. “I… I sleep, I sleep fine, what are you—”

“I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes. You’re always awake. Every time.”

Kun wants to say something to that, wants to defend himself, but everything turns to dust in his mouth. He can only stare at Ten and hope his face doesn’t betray what he actually feels.

Ten shifts under the blanket. “Does it bother you that I’m here?”

_Quite the opposite._ He clears his throat. “No. Of course not.”

“Then why don’t you sleep?” Ten frowns.

“I…” _What the hell is he supposed to say?_ “I don’t know.”

Ten catches his lower lip between his teeth. There’s another stretch of suffocating silence. “Okay,” he breathes after a long while. “You don’t need to tell me.” He moves closer. Kun tries not to back away. “As long as you’re okay with it.”

Kun lets out a breath through his nose. His chest feels taut as violin strings. “Of course I’m okay with it.”

Ten hums and reaches for Kun’s waist. His fingers are too warm through the fabric of his tee shirt. “You don’t ever snuggle me back, you know.”

_I can’t,_ he wants to say. _I don’t know what it would do to me._

“Sorry” is what he says instead.

Ten’s eyes are big, so shiny in the dark, and Kun doesn’t want to think that he’s pretty but he _is—_ and then Ten is reaching for his wrist beneath the blanket, pulling his arm forward, draping it across his own waist. “Not so bad, huh?”

Kun thinks all of his muscles are about to jump out of his skin. “N-No. Not bad.”

“But you won’t sleep like this.” It isn’t said as a question.

He swallows. He hopes and prays that Ten can’t feel his fingers shaking. “I… I don’t think so.”

Ten’s eyes never leave his once. “Why?” He digs his fingers into Kun’s waist then, hard enough for it to mean something, and Kun can’t stop the breath that rushes past his teeth.

“Can you sleep like this?” He whispers back. He doesn’t know what drives him to do it, he thinks he must be _insane,_ but he digs his nails into Ten’s waist, too, and the soft _“ah”_ of surprise that falls from Ten’s mouth sets his bones on fire.

“I mean”—Ten’s voice shakes, just a little, and Kun has never heard him sound so unsure—“I probably could.” He presses his nails in harder, just enough to sting, _God—_ “But at this rate, I don’t know if I want to.”

Kun doesn’t want to know what that means, does not want to _think about what that could mean—“_ Y-You should try,” he breathes. “To sleep.”

Ten blinks, and it’s a long and slow sort of thing. “Should I?” He whispers. His fingers catch at the hem of Kun’s shirt, slide underneath, rest against the skin.

Kun’s breath catches in his throat. Maybe Ten wants it, too—this unspoken thing between them, this need for closeness—but that would be ridiculous because Kun doesn’t want that, no, he couldn’t, he would _never—_

Ten’s fingers trail up, higher and higher, tracing the notches of Kun’s spine the same way Kun’s hands would trace piano keys in his studio. “Didn’t think you would like this.”

“I-I don’t,” he says, but he sounds like all the air has been punched from his lungs and it’s a terribly obvious lie.

Ten laughs softly under his breath. “Fucking liar.”

Kun doesn’t trust his voice, not for a second, so he slips his hand under Ten’s shirt, too, just to see, just to find out—and the soft gasp that falls from Ten’s tongue is really all the answer he needs. “Didn’t think you would like this, either,” he whispers.

His mouth quirks up in a half-smile. “You’re an idiot, then.” His fingers are still moving up and up and up, taking Kun’s shirt with them, and when he reaches Kun’s shoulder blades, he stops. There’s nothing for a long while, just the sound of their breathing in the dark. “Would you…” Ten pauses. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip. Kun tries not to track the movement with his eyes. He fails miserably, like he knew he would. “If I asked, would you… take this off?”

Kun doesn’t have to guess at what he means. Something warm strikes through his chest and drips magma all the way down to his toes. He wonders if he should, if it’s okay, if they’re crossing a line—he must take too long to answer because Ten drops his gaze.

“Um.” He clears his throat. “Nevermind, I—”

“I would.” It tumbles from Kun’s mouth without any help from the rational part of his brain. “I… I would.”

He hears Ten exhale. “Oh.”

Kun moves to sit up, but his body feels like it’s full of lead. There’s a ringing in his ears, fuzzy and dull, as he pulls the shirt over his head and drops it on the floor. He can feel Ten’s eyes on him the entire time, skating across his skin and leaving trails of electricity in their wake. He feels exposed suddenly, infinitely self-conscious, so he brings his head back to the pillow and tugs the blanket around his shoulders.

“Is it okay if I…” Ten reaches for him again beneath the blanket, trailing his fingers along his sides.

“Y-Yeah,” Kun breathes. “It’s okay.” He isn’t really sure if it is, and he thinks there will be consequences later that he won’t want to face, but Ten’s hands are leaving goosebumps in just the way he knew they would—

“You can touch me again, too,” Ten murmurs. “If you want.”

Kun doesn’t want to admit it—that he wants and _wants—_ because he’s never felt like this, never thought of someone else’s skin under his hands like this. It’s unnerving and terrifying and a thousand other things because it’s them, because it’s _Ten,_ because of who they are and what they do and—“I don’t think I should want this.”

Ten’s hands are at Kun’s neck now. He hesitates for a sliver of a second before threading them through his hair. “But you do,” he whispers. “Don’t you?”

Kun reaches forward, unsure, to place a hand back on Ten’s hip. He slips his fingers beneath the fabric again, digs his nails in again, listens to Ten gasp again. “Yes,” he breathes. “I do.”

Ten’s fingers tighten in his hair. Kun watches as his gaze flicks to his mouth, then back up. And then he’s leaning in—closer, closer—and Kun feels the lightest brush of lips against his neck. _Jesus Christ._ Ten does it again and again, feather-soft kisses down to his collarbone, and Kun thinks he might be holding his breath because he’s gone lightheaded. He’s about to move closer—maybe—or roll out of bed and run through the door—maybe—when he feels the gentle sting of teeth on his skin. The most embarrassing breathy whine rises in his throat. He hears Ten laugh. “You like this?”

“I—”

He bites down again, the tiniest bit harder, and Kun’s entire body goes tense. Again—harder—and again—harder still—until Kun hisses at the sting. “Yes, it’s… it’s good.”

And then Ten is tugging at his hair, forcing his head back, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat, and Kun thinks he’s going to pass out. He wraps both arms around Ten’s waist, pulls him closer because he can’t think of anything else to do, and feels it when Ten hums against his neck. They’re chest-to-chest now, as close as they can get, and Ten’s skin is fever-warm under his hands. His mouth moves to Kun’s collarbone, lower and lower down the expanse of his chest, and _God,_ he’s raking his nails down Kun’s back hard enough to _hurt—_

Ten looks up then, and the eye contact they make is pitch-dark and heavy. He’s fucking _stunning_ like this, with his hair mussed and his lips parted, warm breath fanning across Kun’s skin. He wonders if he should say so, wonders what that will do—he swallows hard. “You’re…” It catches in his mouth.

“What?” Ten whispers.

“Gorgeous,” Kun breathes. And he doesn’t regret saying it for even a second, because Ten heaves out a breath and shudders all the way down to his toes.

“’M not,” he murmurs. He moves to rest his forehead against Kun’s chest.

It isn’t at all like Ten to be modest, and Kun doesn’t know how to respond to it. His hands still against his back. He frowns. “You are.”

Ten doesn’t say anything. He shakes his head back and forth.

“Ten.” He slips one hand out from under his shirt, catches his fingers beneath Ten’s chin and tries to tilt his head back. Ten lets him do it, but the second their eyes meet, he drops his gaze. “Is something wrong, do you not want to—”

“You never…” Ten sighs and digs his teeth into his bottom lip. “You never say that to me.”

And it’s true, really, when Kun thinks about it. But Ten hears it from everyone, everywhere, every day—it pours from people’s mouths constantly and he _knows it._ “Don’t you… I mean, you know you’re pretty—”

“But _you_ never say it.” He looks back up then and their eyes lock. “It feels different… when you say that to me.”

Kun thinks maybe he’s forgotten how to breathe. “Oh.”

They stay like that, wordless, for the longest stretch of infinity Kun has ever felt in his life. He trails his fingers along Ten’s jawline until he’s able to thread them through his hair. “You’re pretty,” Kun whispers. He sees Ten screw his eyes shut. He tilts Ten’s head back just enough, just enough to press his mouth to the spot beneath his ear. “You’re beautiful.”

“God,” Ten whimpers.

He trails his lips along his jawline, tightens his fingers in his hair. “Stunning,” he murmurs against the skin. “Always thought so.”

Ten’s breath has gone shaky now, harsh in the quiet, and his fingers dig hard into Kun’s hips. And before Kun can blink—before he can do _anything—_ Ten pushes him back, climbs on top of him, stares down at him with something so raw and genuine it knocks the wind out of him. He’s leaning in—close, _God,_ so close—until his breath fans hot against Kun’s mouth. “I want you to kiss me,” he breathes.

Kun feels his insides dissolve, and he wonders if maybe he’s dying. Somewhere in the back of his mind, way back, far back _so far,_ there’s a voice screaming _no, no, no you can’t do this you can’t and you shouldn’t and you know this isn’t right—_ but oh, he wants to.

God, he wants to.

His fingers tighten in Ten’s hair. “Should we—”

But Ten doesn’t wait—Kun knows he’s never had the patience to—and he’s pressing their lips together before Kun can say anything else. It’s so soft, so gentle, and Ten’s lips part against his in a delicate sigh. Kun trails his free hand down his spine.

“Gonna kiss you again,” Ten murmurs.

Kun doesn’t think he needs to say anything to that. The second kiss starts slow, still achingly gentle, and he tilts his head to press just a little harder. Ten takes the encouragement instantly. It breaks and crumbles—this gentleness of theirs—until it’s all teeth and tongue and Ten whimpering into his mouth. It’s Kun tugging at his hair, catching his lip between his teeth, taking and taking until Ten has to pull back just to breathe. It’s Ten leaning back in, harsh and heavy, kissing him like he wants to pull all the air out of his lungs.

And Kun thinks it’s _perfect_ like this. He wants to swallow down every sound Ten makes, wants to leave bruises with his hands, wants Ten to think about him days later when he’s in bed, alone—it’s too much, it’s so much, it’s not enough. He knows he’ll lose sleep over it—days, weeks, months twisting and turning in the sheets—and he’s okay with it. It’s okay because Ten whispers his name in the dark and presses closer, closer, closer. He wonders if it’s the same for him, too—this feeling of too much and not enough. He hopes it is, because he’s sure that now he’ll die without it—breath and heart and hands stuttering to a stop at the end of whatever road Ten takes him down.

And he’ll gladly go.

Because it’s not enough.

Because it’s too much.

And really, he thinks, it’s perfect like this.

**Author's Note:**

> me: my first kunten fic is gonna be thought out, poignant, perfectly plotted 
> 
> also me: writes this mess in under six hours while half-high on sleeping pills and exhausted out of my mind
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/excelgesis)


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